


Stupidity in the Name of Love

by Cakepopple



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Kick, M/M, klance, literally not much angst tho, surprise ending I guess ahah, viktuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 02:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cakepopple/pseuds/Cakepopple
Summary: If he's being entirely true to his emotions, Lance would say he's having a downright shitty day. Everything pisses him off more than he has the words to express. So, when his husband, Keith, decides to get into a fight with the fiancé of his new friend, he expects any remaining shambles of his happiness to disintegrate in the pit of his stomach.Surprisingly, the fight isn't as frustrating as he assumed it would be.





	Stupidity in the Name of Love

**Author's Note:**

> A request I got from goddessesofeverything on [my tumblr](https://cakepopple.tumblr.com/):  
"Can I please request a drabble of Klance vs Victuuri where they argue over who has the better husband?...Your work is just so fluffy and cute that I'm legit melting from the cuteness. Thank you so much for your work!"
> 
> <3 thank you thank you :')
> 
> I kinda made this more fluffy than funny ahaha

“So, what brings you to the mall?” Lance draws out the first word, an awkward beginning to a conversation with the man in front of him in line. Really, he wouldn’t have gotten into a chat at all, if only the lines weren’t so damn long and stagnant, or if Keith had decided to come with him instead of saving a table. Worse is how his phone is with Keith, because he’s the one with the mobile charger in his bag. Poor planning at its finest. 

Lance always knew he hated food courts on Saturdays, but the thought pounds on the front of his skull when he hears a woman who’s a few customers up, berating the poor worker at the register. Almost feels like giving her a piece of his own mind because he’s been in the employee’s shoes before. And the mall is packed to the brim, so under her shrill voice, he can hear nothing but muddled conversations and the belting of orders and running footsteps and crying children— 

His heart pumps so fast his fingers tremble; he wants to scream.

Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t love the thrill and flow of every crowd. Days like this remind him of as much. Irritation is a headache between his eyes and a lump at the top of his throat, and he’s constantly finding himself on the brink of a meltdown. He doesn’t know why the frustration is there, but he definitely feels it, thick and burning, at every turn. Since he and Keith arrived this morning, he’s been quick to veto every outfit he’s put on in dressing rooms. He’s been snappy with anyone who isn’t Keith or an innocent employee. At least four times, he’s stopped shopping to steady his breathing in an attempt to keep himself from crying. When he’s not distracted, he feels awful about himself; he’s hardly smiled all day.

Lance hopes it’s only the hunger. 

Deep down, he suspects that’s not all it is.

But he’s been attempting friendly conversation with other customers in the food court, with the hopes they’ll snap him out of his irritable mood. A few positive interactions, and maybe the tense and heavy stress in his shoulders will ease away. And thus he’d started a chat with another person in line.

In response to Lance’s question, the man in front of him looks up from his phone and smiles weakly over his shoulder. Discomfort makes his fingers twitch as he pushes his glasses up his nose, then makes his dark hair stick to his forehead when he tries to push it off. “Ah,” he starts, “my fiancé. Expensive tastes. No shopping at Target with that one.” He laughs, and it sounds only a little fake, as he pockets his phone in compliance with the idle chit-chat. His laughter draws a beat or two of joy out of Lance. “What about you?” Lance observes him a second, eyes catching on the small rainbow sticker that’s worn and faded on the side of his glasses. A smile unfolds on his lips as he decides he’s safe not changing Keith’s pronouns this time around. 

“Same here.” He shrugs. “My husband and I got invited to his brother’s wedding; we’re clothes shopping. I’m the picky one, though.” He squeezes a look of mock guilt between his brows, but unwinds it a moment later. The stranger’s face had lit up the moment Lance said Keith was his husband. At the word husband alone, he had gone from passively interested out of boredom, to wide-grinned and attentive. Lance thinks he looked the same when Shiro first mentioned a boyfriend, too. There’s just something about finding someone like you in a person you wouldn’t expect. “I’m Lance,” he greets, extending a hand.

The stranger eagerly takes it. “Yuuri.” Then the lady at the counter shouts for the next customer and his face contorts with distress. Though he’s at the front of the line, he looks as though he doesn’t want the newfound conversation to end. Like he has more to say. He yelps under his breath as the woman calls for him again. Reluctantly, he turns and scuttles to the counter to make his order, but he lingers after he’s gotten his food. Once Lance also gets his meals and finds a way to balance both his and Keith’s trays, he makes his way over. Yuuri swiftly knocks his glasses up with his wrist—his two trays wobble where he has them teetering on his forearm. “I know this is awkward, but I don’t have many friends here in the U.S., so would you and your husband want to eat with my fiancé and I?” 

Makes sense, there  _ is _ an accent in his voice, though it’s not thick. 

Shuffling his trays, Lance nods; Yuuri seems kind, and Lance could use the reassurance that someone other than Keith enjoys his company. Yuuri’s face bunches happily, proudly, and he nods in the direction of his table. Lance follows leisurely, but his mind is elsewhere, as he glances around the dining area in hopes of finding Keith. That’s the trouble with separating from his husband and not having his phone on him. Well, he assumes it will be trouble, except, as he and Yuuri reach the table in question, it seems finding the hothead won’t be much trouble at all.

“Oh, boy,” he hisses, as he sees Keith in a quarrel with a light haired man. That’s bad enough, but when the stranger points aggressively at Keith, Lance notices he has a golden ring that looks strikingly like Yuuri’s. And Yuuri has a wrinkle in his nose like he’s as embarrassed as Lance, like his partner is acting shameful, too. 

Of course, just when Lance is trying to make friends with someone, Keith has to go and get in a fight with his fiancé. 

Panic seizes Yuuri, and he freezes maybe a foot away from the table. Pinching his nose, Lance huffs. The sour taste of frustration is fresh on his tongue; he wants to cry. Stepping forward, he groans, “Keith, what the hell are you on about?” His husband turns from the fight, the angry wrinkles of his scowl instantly smoothing into a smile, as recognition flits along his lips. Leaning forward to peck Lance’s nose, he takes both trays from Lance. 

“Thanks, babe,” he says, and then turns back to Yuuri’s fiancé. “Look, I was here first, so just let me have the table. If it weren’t so crowded, I’d be happy to let you have it, but it  _ is _ crowded, so buzz off.” Unceremoniously, he drops the trays onto the polished wood. He’s staked his claim. Huffing and dragging out a chair, he tosses himself down to claim that, too. The other man doesn’t back off, though, and he plops into the booth on the other end of the table, eyes narrowing. 

“Aw, c’mon,” he says, leaning his elbows on the table to cover as much of the surface of it as possible. Agitation prickles Lance’s nape when Keith scoots a tray forward to push him off. He’s not usually so petty, and Lance can’t begin to piece together what bothered him enough that he decided to pick this fight. “My fiancé just won a skating competition, can’t you cut us some slack? We’re celebrating!” The man turns his head to Yuuri, smiling something forced as he pushes his resistance against Keith’s tray. Also petty. Great combo, Lance wants to mutter sarcastically, and he hates how easily he’s being pushed to breaking down. 

Keith grits his teeth, rolls his eyes, looks to Lance, and then nods to Yuuri’s fiancé, as if to say,  _ can you believe this guy?  _ As though Lance will back him up in his unfounded pettiness. Lance will not. He slants his eyebrows downward and juts his bottom lip out in disappointment. Honestly, Keith can’t compromise worth shit.

Lance notices the way Yuuri’s fiancé shifts his face into an instigating expression, like he’s expecting a backlash. Lance finds the calculatedness of it suspicious, but doesn’t say anything before the stranger’s words are matching the provocation in his expression. “What’s  _ your _ husband done that’s so impressive?”

Oh no. 

Lance puts a hand on Keith’s shoulder, as the man immediately riles up. He winces as his husband’s hands clap against the table, and though the dining hall is far too vast and noisy to pick the singular slap out over the clutter of other sounds, Lance can’t help feeling like everyone in the room is suddenly staring at them. A kid walks past, stops to gawk, before his mother drags him away. Apologetically, Lance waves with his free hand, and then he hides his face under his palm; he swears he can’t breathe from the embarrassment. His other hand squeezes Keith’s bicep, requesting,  _ begging  _ him to let the argument go. It’s just a table, for the love of— 

Obviously, no one lets anything go. Keith leans over where he’s stationed his arm, looming as much as he can over the light-haired man. “Excuse me? You have  _ no _ idea what he’s done. He’s fucking amazing, you damn—”

Exasperated, Lance hisses, “Keith.” His husband looks at him briefly, and for a moment, Lance believes he sees Keith smirk through the gaps between his fingers. He clears his throat. “Let it go.” Keith’s line of sight hooks on Lance intensely—the pensiveness in his gaze is impossible to swallow—and he holds it there. Swipes it over the humiliated tears in Lance’s eyes. He sighs, falls back into his seat, and his arms lock across his chest. 

“Why the hell should I?” He grabs a fry from the tray, and as he grinds it under his teeth, he wrinkles his nose at Yuuri’s fiancé. “He ought to know how great a shot you are, how compassionate you can be, how strategically you think, how helpful you are, just inherently.” And now Keith is watching Lance intently again, with all that foggy passion. Keith’s eyes are smitten, glazed with love; he snatches Lance’s hand away from his face, so he can swirl his thumb over its knuckles with the same emotion. It makes Lance’s head throb with sweltering heat. His breath is coming out short and choppy, his throat constricts so tight he squeaks. At least, he thinks optimistically (for the first time all day), his swarming irritation isn’t at the forefront of his mind anymore. “You’re handsome and smarter than you give yourself credit for. Oh, and you can win people over so easy! Everyone adores you, like, I mean  _ everyone,  _ and—“

“Okay!” Lance can’t meet his eyes. “Stop, stop, stop! Oh, my God, Keith,” he says, batting his hand around until Keith releases it. “You are just—ohh, you are just so bad. Anarchy. Absolutely, absolutely cruel.” Yuuri snorts into his palm at Lance’s reaction, but Lance doesn’t have the peace of mind to say something bitter to him for it. He’s wholly flushed; Yuuri probably has every right to crack up over him, the pleased panic on his face, the crack in his voice. Yuuri’s fiancé is laughing, too, which makes it indescribably worse. “You’re a menace, Kogane. I’m so angry I could—”

Ever hopeful, Keith leans closer, finishing Lance’s sentence with, “Kiss me?” 

“Oh, you  _ wish,  _ Kogane!” There’s a dramatic pout playing on Keith’s face as he falls against the back of his seat once more. 

Yuuri’s fiancé pipes up, and Lance cools some when the attention is off of him. “That’s fair, but Yuuri’s still better. He manages to do so much, even when he gets so anxious so easily! Seeing him overcome his self-doubt is so inspiring.” Lance looks at Yuuri, who’s losing his hold on his trays. They teeter, and Lance watches them warily. His gaze flickers from them to the fog on Yuuri’s glasses. Hastily, Yuuri passes the wobbling trays to his fiancé, so he can rub his glasses clean on the collar of his shirt. “He’s won medals; he’s a celebrity. And a cute one, too. He’s got squishy, little cheeks, and a round, little nose—”

“Viktor,” he squeaks, the name dragged long and mortified on his tongue. “Viktor, stop! You’re  _ both _ awful!” Viktor squints and tilts his head to one side, as though he’s about to argue. Or compliment Yuuri more. “Nope! Stop! We’re all just gonna share the table. No more of this. Say hello to Lance and his husband, our new friends, who we are  _ not _ going to argue with anymore.” 

Placing one palm on the dwindling open table space for balance, Lance throws his other hand as far over the table as he can reach while still pressed close to his sitting husband. Viktor extends his own, expression far more amiable than it had been with Keith. “Nice to meet you,” Lance says, “I heard you’re just as picky with clothes as I am.” Pleasantly, Viktor laughs at the statement, not at all offended. 

And then Lance finds two empty chairs at an otherwise full table, asks the people there if he can have them, and drags them back for Yuuri and himself. Viktor gives his booth spot up to his fiancé, though, so Lance and Yuuri end up huddled together to chat at one corner of the table. They mindlessly babble back and forth and exchange funny images in their camera rolls for a bit, while Keith and Viktor are virtually silent on the other end of the table. There’s an understanding in their silence, however, and once the conversation between Yuuri and Lance gets going, they face each other with an unspoken scheme deep in their chests.

Keith and Viktor meet eyes and highfive, low and quiet, under the table, where their partners can’t see. “Pleasure conspiring with you. Sorry I approached you out of the blue like that. And to ask for such a weird favor, too,” Viktor says, tone jovial, as he pretends to listen to the other two men prattle comfortably. “No one would buy it if I told them a fake argument was all it took to make Yuuri feel better about himself.” He places his chin on his palm and he stares fondly at his fiancé. There’s a moment in which Keith only watches him do it, a sort of companionship and friendly fondness warming against his lungs. It’s familiar. The glow on Viktor’s face reminds him of the ache of his own persistent smile, stretching his face whenever he sees Lance. In his head, he sees the way Lance looks at him when he’s listening to Keith tell a story. That’s the look Viktor has. Love is a universal expression, the same soft gaze and curled lips. Keith thinks he likes that. The uniformity of it. The simplicity.

And he lets the same tender smile unfold on his cheeks, turning to his own husband. “Happy to help,” he whispers, curt and simple. He’s unfathomably proud of the shift in Lance’s mood, how much cheerier he looks. The way Lance rolls his head back as he laughs, the skylights drawing a shadow on the table and a ring of white on Lance’s scalp. His vast and blue eyes, crinkled at the corners as Yuuri amuses him with something silly on his phone. His cute, sharp nose, that points upward at the sun while he giggles to himself, like he’s a part of the warmth of the room. Like he’s pointing at his reflection, since his newly found grin is brighter and more pleasant than the sunshine could ever be. Keith knows he’s staring, unashamed and easy to spot, but no embarrassment surfaces in his gut. No, he just sighs at the confident smile on Lance’s face as he shows Yuuri something in his camera roll. Yuuri sputters over the drink he’d been swallowing, wheezing with laughter—Viktor laughs along with—and Lance says something Keith’s too lovestruck to hear. Knowing Lance, it’s probably a meme, though. “I think,” he whispers, and Viktor reluctantly tears his eyes from the duo to watch Keith. “I think Lance needed a boost, too. Look at him.” He’s laughing harder now, eyes twinkling with overjoyed tears. It’s unfair how easily he can clutch the heart in Keith’s chest, steal the coordination in his thoughts, seize the steadiness of his breath.  _ “God. _ ” He shakes and ducks his head, pulse quick. 

Viktor seems to understand what Keith’s getting at, seems able to recognize the same shade of love painted over all of Keith’s presence. “To helping the insecure men in our lives,” he whispers, and he holds his paper cup out to Keith. Lifting his head, Keith grabs his own soda and swishes it, so the fizz crackles. He knocks it once against Viktor’s cup, then takes a mouthful through the straw.

He flicks his eyes back to Lance, keeping them there. Keeping them against the delighted wrinkle in his husband’s nose. The rosy tint of a laugh on the tips of his ears. Keith’s heart gets warm when he focuses, when he makes the clamor of the room fade out of his consciousness, so all he can hear is Lance’s uninhibited, radiant sounds as he chuckles. He’s dazzling. 

Slowly, with the definition of lovestruck seeping from his every breath, Keith murmurs, “Yeah. To helping the insecure men we love.”

**Author's Note:**

> heyyy!! as always, leave comments and kudos, please :) and feel free to send in requests and like hc questions or whatever you want!! over in [my tumblr](https://cakepopple.tumblr.com/)'s ask box :)


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